Tiny blades of grass kicked up from the mower and sprayed Paul’s calves like itchy pieces of hair. The sun reached down from the sky and pressed hot fingers against the sides of his face. He squinted against the brightness and pushed the mower faster.
Distraction.
That was the name of the game.
Work himself to exhaustion so his brain would think of nothing but water and food and a good night of sleep.
He wiped at the beads of sweat trickling down his temple. Heat and humidity tangled together in the late afternoon air, but he kept going like a man on a mission. He’d spent the day at his mom’s, first pulling weeds out of her flower beds, then cleaning out the shed, then hanging shelves in the garage, and now mowing the lawn.
He missed this—manual labor.
A yard to take care of.
Living in the city meant he hardly had any lawn at all. He and his neighbors were all squished together on same-sized, too-small lots that cost a fortune. Maybe it was time to move. Officially start over. It wasn’t like he’d ever wanted to live in the city to begin with. That had been Vivian. Her father bought them the house. An actual house. Something Paul hadn’t been comfortable with, but Vivian had fallen in love.
Then she died, and he stayed because it was the only home his children knew, and they were settled in a good school with good friends. Adding unnecessary change to the situation didn’t seem wise. But maybe they were ready now. Maybe they could put their house up for sale and move to the suburbs, where life would be easier and far from bad memories.
Sweat trickled down the nape of his neck. His shirt stuck to his back.
A dog barked one yard over.
Paul dragged his arm across his face, picturing the scene. A nice house, a well-kept lawn, a dog for the kids to take care of. Grilling hamburgers out back with Reese and Tate.
Maybe Autumn would join them.
The intrusive thought made his stomach clench.
He still couldn’t believe she’d read his song, and that he’d gotten so close to telling her the truth. If her sister hadn’t called, he probably would have. He didn’t trust that he still wouldn’t, and once it came tumbling out, it would be impossible to take back. Every time she saw him, she would know what he couldn’t escape:
Paul Elliott, Marriage Doctor extraordinaire, was a fraud.
A hypocrite.
A giant phony.
A man who prayed for a way out and got it in the form of a dead wife.
Paul shook his head and pushed the mower faster.
Tomorrow was Father’s Day. They’d all go to church, and afterward, Mom would make Pop’s favorite—pot roast and potatoes. They’d sit outside and play chess while Reese read a book or wrote a story and Tate organized a water-balloon fight with all the neighborhood kids.
On Monday, he’d go back to work and deal with the phone calls and e-mails he had yet to return to his agent, who was thrilled about the marriage campaign. He would have to respond to Autumn’s e-mail. He couldn’t keep avoiding her. He would have to do the interview. Then on Thursday, he’d pick up Regina from the airport, something he didn’t think he’d have to do ever again since her hatred for O’Hare seemed to outweigh her love for her grandchildren.
It did not outweigh, however, her need to go to this reception. Appearances meant everything to a woman like Regina.
The tribute would end.
The marriage campaign would come and go.
And he and Autumn would be nothing more than casual acquaintances who made small talk on occasion in Redeemer’s lobby.
The entire thing really depressed him.
Paul turned the mower to make a diagonal path toward the house and spotted his mother, out on the patio, waving frantically in his direction.
He released the mower’s handle.
The engine went dead.
The dog barked.
And Mom yelled. She yelled for Paul to hurry. To come quickly.
“It’s Pop!” she said. “Something’s wrong with Pop.”
Paul’s heart lurched as he sprinted inside, where the kitchen faucet ran. He turned the water off.
Mom picked up the phone to dial 911. “He’s in the bathroom. I can’t get him out. He’s blocking the door.”
Paul ran to the main-level bedroom, the one that used to be Mom’s but was now Pop’s because he couldn’t use the stairs. The bathroom door was slightly ajar, light spilling out from the small crack. Sure enough, when he pushed the door to open it wider, something blocked the way.
“Pop, are you okay in there?”
A muffled sound came from the other side. It was like Pop had been gagged. Like he wanted to talk, but he couldn’t.
Behind him, Mom spoke into the receiver. “It’s my father. He’s eighty-five. He collapsed in the bathroom. I think he’s having a stroke.”
Paul didn’t know what to do.
Should he try to push the door harder? How could he be sure he wouldn’t injure Pop further? But how could he be sure Pop wasn’t dying right now, all alone on the other side of this door?
He knocked. “Pop? Pop, can you hear me?”
More muffled, unintelligible sound.
“Yes,” Mom said, her fingers near her mouth. “Yes, he seems to be conscious. He’s making sounds, but we can’t understand them.”
“Ask if we should try to open the door,” Paul said.
Mom parroted his question. “My son wants to know if we should try to get inside the bathroom.”
An interminable pause.
A panic-soaked pause.
If the bathroom had a window, he’d sprint outside and crawl through. But the bathroom didn’t have a window.
Paul peered through the small crack and could see nothing but the walker and one of Pop’s legs. He got down on all fours and pressed his face against the carpet to peer underneath. Was that blood? Was Pop bleeding?
“What are we supposed to do?” he asked.
“She says not to open the door. Not if he’s blocking it. An ambulance is on the way.”
“Did you hear that, Pop?” Paul called, his voice trembling. “Help is on the way. It’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay.”
That was all Paul could do.
During that torturous wait, while Mom spoke with the 911 operator and Pop lay helpless on the floor, Paul repeated those words over and over. He got down on his knees, praying they were true.
Then the wail came.
And Paul could see it unfolding.
The ambulance speeding down the street, sirens blaring. The curiosity that would fill Reese and Tate as they watched, and then the fear and panic that would strike when the ambulance pulled into their grandmother’s driveway.
He wanted to get up and run to them. Shield them from more trauma.
But he couldn’t. He had to stay. He had to wait until the paramedics arrived with the stretcher.
And then he rushed outside, where the neighbors had begun to gather. Reese and Tate tore down the street from three houses down, their eyes wild. Paul met them on the sidewalk. They crashed into him, tears tumbling down their faces.
Tears of relief for Reese, because she thought something had happened to her dad. Tears of sadness for Tate, because he sure loved his Pop.
Paul rubbed their backs and clutched them tighter and told them the same thing he’d told his grandfather.
“It’s going to be okay. It’s going to be okay.”
Over and over and over again.